2 Death Rejoices (65 page)

The center of the bathroom door cracked. I spun around, grabbed an aerosol can of Studio Line Mega Max hairspray from the counter and the matches. A second crack and the zombie's face appeared through shards of cheap, hollow-core door. Maybe there had been something to my prayer to Titus, Master of Locks. Or maybe I just needed to go to my grave having gotten a chance to re-enact the bathroom scene from
The Shining
, but with less screaming and armed with hairspray instead of a knife.

This zombie was corpulent, her face rotting rapidly, triple chins bloating above a purple, flowered house dress in worn, sticky sateen. She pulled blackened lips off yellow, goo-slicked teeth and insisted, “
eeeerrrgggh!
”

“No, no, no. Your line is, ‘Honey, I'm home’.” I lit a match and hit the nozzle, sticking the flame in the stream of hairspray and propellant. The hairspray and zombie's face went
fwoosh
; a great orange fireball, nearly blinding in its intensity, hung in the air around the door for a second, making my jaw pop open.

“Wow, don't fuck with the Mega Max,” I said, dropping the can and bolting back to the toilet. I used it as a step to hop up onto the counter, and from the countertop, dove at the opening of the window. I almost made it.

My arms and most of my upper body went through the window but my momentum didn't carry me all the way through; my hips dropped with a bang against the window frame. My breath went out with a harsh cough and I was really glad I'd already peed. My rubber raincoat squeaked against the old metal. While I wondered where the fuck Batten was as I hung half-out the window, hauling my body forward against gravity and rubber raincoat resistance with my shaking arms, the rest of the door shattered, succumbing to the zombie's considerable weight.

I felt something slimy slap my naked ankle. Pure panic gave my arms that extra boost of strength I needed to fling myself in a graceless, walrus-like surge up and through the window, tumbling out and down before landing on my head on the back lawn. Amazingly, I hadn't landed in any dog poop.

Freedom. The zombie would bumble around in the bathroom and the rest of the house, mindlessly trying to find me inside long
enough for me to get away, I figured. Cradling my noggin in one gloved hand, I pushed off in a disoriented muddle, tripping over the abandoned window screening and going to one knee; I ran around the side yard to the front of the house, toward her car.

Her locked car.

I crouched near the burgundy Nissan Sentra and crawled under it in time to hear the front door burst open. My immediate thought was,
Hunh, smart zombie?
but Batten's voice cut the air.

“Marnie! Get out of there!”

I peeked out from under the Sentra to see Hood and Batten on the front porch. I whistled sharply at them, only to see the thing in the purple housedress lurch onto the porch behind Batten; I shot my finger out from under the car to warn him with a shriek.

He whipped around, wielding something long that I didn't register for what it was until Hood was backing away and the long thing was arching through the air, a silver streak directed at its head.

The axe stuck in the zombie's face right across the bridge of its nose, the impact rocking it back on its heels. Batten came down the stairs next to Hood, backing into the yard to get room to maneuver. He brought my modified Taser out.

“She's too big and fresh to burn without an accelerant! That little bit of butane won't be enough for a full-grown human!” I yelled.

Batten glanced over his shoulder and surprised me with a cocky smile.

From the bulging front pocket of his jeans, Hood took a rectangular squirt-bottle of lighter fluid and flicked the top off. The zombie apparently had trouble seeing due to the recent change in facial alignment, but noticed Hood's movements to its left and surged forward, arms out as if for a big hug. Hood hosed it down and said something to Batten I didn't catch. The zombie didn't stop coming. Hood backed up at a half-run, waving his arms to keep the zombie interested. Batten waited until they were away from the cabin before firing the Taser.

I'd seen people burn before. I've seen a lot of different kinds of fire. I'd never seen a purple housedress lift and spin on the horrible updrafts of a zombie roast before. I'd also never seen a human bonfire in motion.

The fat, flaming zombie came at Batten, who instinctively drew his Taurus from his ankle sheath and fired off a round at its head. It came towards him too fast, chewing up the distance, arms waving wildly overhead, sending sparks and clumps of burning flesh in all directions. My breath caught and my gloved hands clenched into fists as the zombie lurched first at Batten, who tossed the axe casually aside to leave both hands free, and then at Hood; it seemed torn between which one looked more appetizing, weaving back and forth while they played keep-away. I had a moment of keen sympathy, watching them dance and weave in the open yard, raw physical prowess on display; Batten's strength contrasting with Hood's dexterity made me super glad that Golden wasn't around to enjoy the show; telling her about it later was going to be
awesome
. Batten and Hood dodged the zombie's advances, keeping its attention with their big movements and swooping just out of range of its grasping hands like kids playing tag and taunting the slower, clumsier kid who was stuck being “it”. They bounded in circles to keep the blazing monster away from the car and house while the zombie's time ran out. When the fire finally ate through enough to slow it, Hood took the zombie down with a leg sweep and danced back on the balls of his feet.

Hood ran to the Sentra with his right hand down, palm out, to tell me to stay where I was; I did. Batten's wide-legged stance framed the scene for me perfectly. I watched the zombie roll, flail and burn on the lawn, gurgling around her decomposing tongue. From under the Sentra, I waited for it to be over. It seemed to take far too long. The smells of charred zombie and barbecued dog shit mixed as badly as I feared they would.

When the zombie no longer moved, Batten backed cautiously toward us, squatted and, not taking his eyes off the flaming mess, offered me a hand to haul me out of my hiding spot. I reached for him.

That was when the second dog darted from the shadows near the porch; snarling and quick, it threw itself on Batten's bent back. Batten went down in a blur of arms and fur and teeth, his own snarl echoing the dog's.

Dark Lady, not my Kill-Notch!
I scrambled out from under the car, my first instinct being to put vengeful hands on the thing attacking Mark.

Hood got in my face, shoving my shoulder, shouting, “Run, Mars!” His gun was drawn, and he brought it up to aim, waiting for a clear shot. “Run, dammit!”

Without thought, my body did what my trainer commanded; my bare feet took flight, pelting around the opposite side of the Sentra. I was close to the smoking cadaver when the axe caught my eye and my free will returned in a rush. I reached into the fire, grabbed the axe, swung around, and charged back to the fray.

This dog wasn't rotten, though it was definitely mangy. Hood had inched closer, waiting for his shot. Batten was trying to get the dog off his back and not get bitten in the process; I bolted over and kicked it as hard as I could in the rump.

The dog let out a cavernous
rowf
and leaped off Batten's back, tearing his shirt with overgrown nails. Drooling and snapping at me, it launched a bouncing counterattack. Both men yelled something at me in unison, but I was far too busy stumbling backward and hauling the axe up to pay attention to them. The dog shredded lawn as it jumped, kicking up clumps of dirt and grass. The axe was heavy enough to make my arms tremble. Swinging the blade diagonally, I missed the dog's snout but caught it squarely in the neck, which did the next best thing: lopped the head off. The body flopped end-over-end and hit me in the chest. I squealed and danced away, flinging the axe aside. The stink of rot finally hit me and I knew: the thing had just turned. It landed with a convulsive shudder, legs paddling air, and then lay still.

Batten.

I whipped around and hurried to where he was getting to his feet. “No, no, back on your knees, let me see your shoulders. Did it bite you? Let me see your neck. Don't move, get down,” I ordered.

Batten complied, sinking back to one knee in front of me, lowering his six-foot height for me to examine for scratches and bites. Hood was quick with a mini-flashlight, brightening the tree-shaded area.

“Looks clear,” Hood said.

Batten's skin was tanned, bronze, smooth, slick with sweat, and sprinkled with the odd mole here and there, along with an old scar on the edge of one shoulder blade that he'd gotten years ago as a kid from some other kid's hockey stick. Otherwise, there were no marks,
blemishes or imperfections, just lots of hard, tanned muscles waiting for me to add bite marks.

“You're all right,” I announced, and offered him a hand up. He took my gloved hand but didn't really use it to pull himself up, just held onto it and didn't let go.

I braced for the yelling, but this time it didn't come, not from either of them. Hood's half-lidded eyes and the fatigued downward tilt of Batten's mouth were a bit of a relief: maybe they were too tired to chew me out.

“Well, that was disturbing,” I said to fill the silence.

“You okay, Mars?” Hood asked, and when I nodded, he added, “Need a bus?”

“No ambulance, thanks.”

“You sure? You look pale.”

“Just a little corpsepox,” I said, scratching absently. “And I look like shit. Which, incidentally, both you guys smell like. I wasn't going to say anything while you danced with the zombie, but… dog bombs. All over your damn shoes.”

Hood's nearly-invisible eyebrows lifted and he wrinkled his nose. Batten looked doubtfully at the bottoms of his standard-issue boots and grimaced. “Is that all?”

“No worries. We're good.”

“Is this thing going to get back up?” Hood toed the Labradoodle's head with his soiled boot. It rolled over to stare at me, tongue lolling.

“Doesn't look like it.”

“So, shooting them in the head isn't good enough, but taking their head right off works. Good to know. There another dog?” he asked.

“Inside, under the bed,” I said. “It's not quite dead yet, but it's losing fur, has severe wounds, and stinks like you wouldn't believe.”

The two men, both cops, and more accustomed to carnage than I was, resisted looking at the roasting zombie corpse and the headless Labradoodle.

“Should I bring it out?” Hood asked. “Will it bite me?”

“I wouldn't risk it.”

Hood nodded. “I'll get in touch with the CDC guys, they'll have a protocol.” He turned to talk into his phone, giving our hands one more scan.

Batten's hand was reassuringly strong holding mine, his palm making the green leather of my glove creak; he held it for longer than he needed to, even after Hood eyeballed us again. Fire light played across one side of Batten's hard face, throwing the other side into shadow; if that light hadn't been supplied by a burning zombie corpse, it might have been an actual, romantic moment. Even with the corpses, it was still one of the more calmly intimate interludes I'd ever had. The sad quirk of his mouth said Batten knew it, too. Now that we were alone, I wondered if I'd get a talking-to, but his shoulders fell and he sneaked out a yawn.

“I'm sorry, are the zombies boring you, Kill-Notch?” I asked.

His reply was a grumpy, exhausted grunt.

“You guys made that kill look easy,” I accused.

“All my kills look easy, Snickerdoodle.”

“There's something to be proud of.”

He looked down at the smoking mess. “Well, it wasn't a fancy affair like Marnie Baranuik's Kitty Litter Adventure.”

“I really do need to get a cat.”

“What would you name it?”

“Something totally Canadian.”

“Maple-leaf Beaver Bacon?” he suggested. The tilt of his smile belied a border town upbringing and Canadian-adjacent familiarity.

“Poutine Labatt-Trudeau.” My shoulder brushed up against his biceps and he felt solid, like a granite wall, so I leaned against him. He leaned back, and I wasn't strong enough to hold him up, and he swayed for a second before adjusting his stance.

“Walk you home?” he offered. And then, apparently picking something up from the way my raincoat moved, he asked, “Are you wearing anything under that?”

“Of course. What kind of whackadoodle runs around naked in a raincoat?”

“Flashers,” he answered.

“You caught me.”

“Knew it,” he said with a rare smile. “Do I want to know where your shoes are?”

“Melted asphalt on my Keds. Lost one flip flop kicking the chimp suit, and I think Roger Kelly might have gnawed the other. The CDC took them both anyway.”

“Do I want to know how you came to be in the Labradoodle lady's house to begin with? Or why you came alone?”

“Oh, Hunkypants.” I sighed. “You won't like the answer, why ask the question?”

“Do I need to carry you over the stones, here?” We started over the driveway to the road.

“I should absolutely say yes to that,” I said, gazing up at the darkening sky through the canopy above, “because that would be awesome. And you need to do strength work in addition to zombie-dodge cardio.” Hood would be so proud; I had been paying attention to his horrible, early-morning training lectures. “But I don't do damsel in distress.”

“Are you kidding? You're always in distress.”

“Well, yeah, but I can't let you carry me,” I said. “I do have
some
pride.”

“Since when?”

I let that go with a smirk and a shake of my head, walking delicately where the stones were rough, noting that he slowed his pace so I could keep up with his long-legged strides. My gaze fell on an unfamiliar square of plywood nailed to the end of the fence near the driveway. “Hey, that's new.”

Batten gave an incriminating choked-back laugh as I marched over to read the sign.

TRESPASSERS WILL BE EATEN. At the bottom of the sign was a little green cartoon frog with blackened fangs. Despite its cheekiness, the sketch wasn't half bad.